Parmo withdrew his sword and held the blade before him in the wan moonlight alongside the houndkeeper’s tower. The blade—now polished and honed to a fine edge—felt odd in his hands. It had been decades since he last wielded it. The last time he had killed a man with the sword he had been in Valaróz, and he had been wearing his ring, the ring that he left with his daughter. Prisca, I’m so sorry, he lamented. I didn’t mean to take her away from you. I’ll make it right again, I promise. He exhaled sharply and strode to the entrance of the tower where he banged on the door with the pommel of his sword.
“Who’s there?” a voice shouted from inside.
“My name is Parmo. I bring news of the princess. I know where she is. I want my bounty.”
The door opened a few inches and the guard inside peered through the crack. “What is it you know?”
“This,” Parmo said, and he jabbed the tip of the sword into the man’s exposed eye. It was not a clean thrust, though, and the man squealed out in pain as he fell back, merely maimed. Parmo kicked the door open and swore as he thrust the sword again, this time into the guard’s heart. The man collapsed to the floor and Parmo leapt over his body to sprint up the spiraling staircase. There were two more of the houndkeepers’s men upstairs, at least, and Parmo knew they must have heard the cry of pain. If they had any sense at all, they were hurriedly trying to write messages to send off with the ravens.
The stairs went on and on and Parmo found himself dizzy by the time he reached the first doorway some sixty feet up from the ground level. He paused a moment to gather himself and gripped his sword tightly before kicking the door in. With a shout, he lunged into the chamber only to find it empty but for the scent-hound on her giant compass wheel. Realizing he was in the wrong room, Parmo turned back into the stairwell and hurried up the last section of stairs. Inside the second chamber he found his quarry: two men bearing the seal of the Emperor. One of the men lunged at him while the other hurriedly reached into a cage to grab one of the ravens. Parmo parried the first man’s knife thrust and kneed him in the groin. The man went down to his knees with a grunt and Parmo bashed his head with the pommel of his sword, splaying him out across the floor. The other man saw Parmo charging and screamed in panic as he hurled his raven toward the window. Parmo cut him down from behind, but too late. The raven opened its broad wings and took flight.
“Raven!” Parmo yelled, and even as he said it, three arrows whistled up from the darkness below to strike the hapless bird and send it flailing to the ground.
Parmo slumped to his knees over the window sill and sighed. “Well done, Captain,” he said out the window after a long moment, then he turned to the two men lying in the chamber. The second was clearly dead, and after a quick examination, Parmo found the first one dead as well. He had been hoping to merely knock the man unconscious. Not quite used to the strength of this youthful body, he thought wryly. Still, it saved him the trouble of having to bind and drag the man downstairs. His part in carrying out the coup was complete. Now it’s up to the others.
When he caught his breath, Parmo started back down the stairs, intent on joining up with the captain of the archers and going to the castle to see how their co-conspirators were faring, but as he passed the lower of the two chambers an odd noise caught his attention. He stopped and poked his head into the scent-hound’s chamber. The hound’s body quivered and Parmo heard the noise again. It was the hound itself. She was whining.
Parmo stepped into the chamber and eyed the creature warily. He had heard of the scent-hounds before, of course, but never seen one. Few people had. The sight of the miserable creature both disgusted him and stung his heart with pity. Its eyes were watching him, he realized, and it whined again.
“I can’t help you,” Parmo said. “I’m sorry.”
The creature groaned—half-growl, half whimper—like an injured dog begging for help. “I can’t help you,” Parmo repeated, seeing the ghastly shaft through the creature’s navel, and how its flesh was melded into the metal spokes of the giant compass. “There’s no way to release you.”
The creature kept at its whining and Parmo steeled himself. There was only one act of mercy he could perform, he knew. Taking a deep breath, he set his feet and raised his sword high over his head. He brought it down with all the force and precision he could muster and for a split second—right before the blade clove the dog-head from the woman’s body—the creature went silent and Parmo swore he saw gratitude in its eyes. He hoped it was gratitude, at least, and told himself it was best this way. He then stepped out of the chamber and went slowly down the stairs.
King Casstian pushed himself up from the straw and muck covering the floor of his cell and looked through the small window slot in the iron door. The sound of heavy footsteps and a confusing array of shouted orders in the adjoining corridor had roused him from his muddled, half-asleep, half-awake state of consciousness. After the first few days in the dungeon, he had lost track of all sense of time. He had no idea how long he had been locked up and stood now only to interrupt the unceasing monotony his existence had become.
When a half-dozen soldiers congregated outside his cell then unlocked the door, he hardly realized what was happening.
“Your Majesty,” one of the men said with a curt bow, “Castle Pyrthin has been retaken. We await your orders.”
Casstian shielded his eyes against the glare of the torches they held. “I’m free?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“What of Wulfram, and that snake Natarios?”
“Wulfram left two days ago for Col Sargoth. The houndkeeper seems to have escaped, but we have killed or captured the rest of his men.”
Casstian regarded his men silently for a moment. “You realize that by your actions, you have thrown Pyrthinia into war against the Emperor?”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” one of the men replied, “war began the moment you were thrown into the dungeon.”
Casstian smiled grimly. “Well said, man. Release the rest of my advisors from their cells and lead the way out of here. I need to wash the filth from me and eat a proper meal if I am to think straight again.”
Parmo and the six archers found the main gates of Castle Pyrthin guarded when they arrived, but when the captain of the archers identified himself and mentioned Parmo’s name, the guards quickly ushered them inside the courtyard.
“The King said to send you in straight away,” one of the guards said to Parmo, leading the way into the main keep.
“He’s safely freed, then?” Parmo queried.
“Alive and well,” the guard said with a big grin on his face. “He’s bathed already and in the mess hall eating like a man half-starved.”
True to the guard’s word, they found King Casstian in the mess hall. Rufous, Gaetan, and all but a few of the other conspirators were there with him already, though none of them shared his same interest in eating.
“And who is this?” Casstian asked, setting his fork and knife aside when he saw Parmo and the archers approaching.
Parmo gestured for the captain of the archers to speak first.
“I am Tharon Phaedros, new Captain of the Royal Archers, Your Majesty,” the man said. “I regret to inform you that my predecessor, Ras Ambros, is dead, slain by the hand of Wulfram.”
“So I have been told,” Casstian replied. “You are to be commended, Captain, and are hereby promoted to the rank of First Constable for your deeds tonight. The men who accompanied you tonight are promoted two ranks and given all the wages and privileges afforded to such. Thank you, gentlemen.”
The archers bowed thankfully and moved to the side, for already the King’s attention was on Parmo. In fact, Casstian had recognized Parmo the moment he set foot into the mess hall. His face looked strangely familiar to him, yet he could not say who he was or how he knew him.
“You, sir,” Casstian said. “You are the one called Parmo?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Parmo answered with a polite bow of his head.
“My men tell me you are the one who organized them and strategized my release.”
“I merely facilitated the meeting,” Parmo replied. “Your men found one another and devised the individual components of our plan. I did little more than storm the houndkeeper’s tower.”
“Your modesty is unfounded. Taking the tower is no small feat itself, and I’m inclined to believe your role was larger than that. And yet you are clearly not Pyrthinian. Who are you, if I may ask, and of what concern to you was my release?”
Parmo hesitated. With all the work he had done to engineer Casstian’s release, he had neglected to consider what he would say to the King now that he was free. “Rufous has told you what befell Pyrthin’s Flame, I assume?” Parmo asked, sidestepping the King’s question altogether.
“Yes. He says you swear that my daughter was abducted from the ship before it sank.”
“That is my belief,” Parmo confirmed. “The princess had befriended my granddaughter, and when I discovered the ship was burning, I went to rescue them first. Their cabin was empty, and there was no sign of violence or struggle. I am certain they were bore away on the strange flying ship we spotted afterward, as outlandish as that may sound. And hence my concern with your release, your Majesty. We are joined in purpose to find our kin.”
Casstian narrowed his eyes and leaned forward in his seat. “What I find outlandish is that you claim to have a granddaughter—you who are less than half my age and barely old enough to have children of any age.”
Parmo swore inwardly at himself for forgetting his own story.
“Well?” Casstian asked. “Who are you, really? I will have the truth.”
Parmo sighed and decided that nothing would serve but the truth at this point. Part of it at least. We are at war with the Emperor now, he conceded, and Casstian needs to know who I am if I am to be of any help.
“My name is Parmenios Pallma.”
Casstian shook his head. “That’s impossible. The Pallma bloodline was extinguished thirty-odd years ago.”
“So the Emperor has said and so he believes, but I live.” Parmo closed his eyes and recalled the scene that had nearly faded into his memory. “I was at sea when Wulfram and Guderian attacked Sol Valaróz and killed my family. I received warning barely in time when my ship reached the harbor. I was rash and meant to fight and avenge my family, but my crew would not allow it, and they threw me overboard as Guderian’s men boarded my ship. The Sargothians fired arrows at me, but I was a strong swimmer in my youth. I went under and held my breath as long as I could then surfaced at the transom of the ship, concealed by the rudder. I stayed hidden there all day, then in the cover of night swam to a merchant ship at a pier across the harbor and climbed aboard as a stowaway for seven days in the harbor and two weeks more at sea before slipping away in Pyrvino. The Emperor’s men never found my body, but they declared me dead nonetheless, figuring I must’ve been shot or drowned.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” Casstian demanded. “Parmenios Pallma would be twice your age if he were alive.”
“I am not as young as I look—I am sixty-four years old, Your Majesty. I myself find it hard to believe, but the passage of time has somehow been turned back in me by the hand of a sorceress. I have lived a life of modesty in hiding since my escape; I married, had children, a grandchild, and grew old. Then somehow, beyond my comprehension, I awoke young again. I cannot explain it, but it is the truth. Do you not recognize me, Casstian? We met once when you were still a boy.”
Casstian shook his head, still not believing it.
“Look at my sword,” Parmo said, handing his weapon over hilt first. “The blade bears the crest of Pallma on it.”
“That makes you nothing more than a thief.”
“Recall then the time I visited Kal Pyrthin,” Parmo said. “You were no more than seven perhaps, but you joined your father and mine on a boar hunt. I rode at the rear of the procession with you, and one of the boars escaped the hunters’ spears. You were unhorsed as our fathers made chase after it, and in your fright you began to cry. But you were too proud to let your father or anyone else see. I offered to help you up, but you stubbornly refused and made me swear your tears to secrecy.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Casstian asked, the memory coming back to him quite clearly.
“I have kept that secret until this day, Casstian, and would have kept it secret still if there were any other way to prove my identity. I know it is hard to believe, but I am Prince Parmenios Pallma, the rightful King of Valaróz.”
24
Secret Paths
Caile stopped at the top of the small ridgeline clearing and dismounted to wait for Talitha to catch up. The nearest peaks of the Barrier Mountains towered before him. They looked close enough to touch, but Caile knew firsthand how their tremendous size fooled the eye and warped one’s sense of distance. For two days now they had been climbing through the wooded hills beyond Ulmstadt, and the mountains looked nearly the same now as they did then. Perhaps even more foreboding were the dark clouds coming in from the south to nestle along the base of the mountains. Caile turned away and looked back in the direction they had come. Ulmstadt was long gone from sight, but from his vantage point he was able to make out sections of the forest tract they had been following. The tract had long ago been abandoned and was little wider than a game trail now. At times, it disappeared altogether, buried beneath a landslide, blocked by a tree fall, or merely overgrown with time. Still, they had been successful thus far in always finding the trail again, and they had made good time—better at least than they would have fared setting out cross-country through the heavily wooded hills.
Talitha reached the top of the ridge and slid from her saddle to join Caile. “You set a grueling pace,” she said.
“The horses are doing most of the work,” he replied with a shrug. “They’re sturdier than they look.”
“Northern animals always are. It takes strength and fortitude to live out here.”
Caile motioned toward the clouds in the distance. “Are we going to make it before the snows come?”
“Those are not snow-bearing clouds. At least not yet. We have another two days before we reach the caverns. With any luck, the first storms will hold out until then.”
“And then what?” Caile asked.
“Then we journey into the mountain. It is another four days from the entrance to Issborg.”
Caile had refrained from voicing all his concerns for fear of sounding too worrisome and cynical, but he had heard of Trumball before and the caverns of Issborg. “I thought the caves were gone,” he said. “Weren’t they destroyed when Trumball was killed?”
“The southern entrance was collapsed, that is all.”
“That’s where we are going isn’t it? The southern entrance?”
Talitha smiled. “Trust me. I know another way.”
“You say that a lot,” Caile remarked. “You’d be a lot more trustworthy if you were more forthcoming with information.”
“And you’d be a much more pleasant traveling companion if you weren’t so worrisome.”
Caile waved one hand at her in exasperation and hopped back onto his horse. “Lead the way then. These caverns aren’t going to find themselves.”
Makarria was awake, but she did not stir when Roanna entered their chamber. Typically she was up and awake when Roanna arrived to fetch Taera each morning, but with Siegbjorn gone Makarria saw little reason to get out of bed and so stayed hunkered down beneath her covers.
Taera, on the other hand, threw aside her covers and started to get dressed out of rote habit as soon as she heard Roanna enter.
“Don’t bother,” Roanna said. “You’re staying here today.”
“What?” Taera asked, still groggy. “Why?”
Roanna sat Taera back down on her bed then sat beside her. “The time of reckoning is upon you, Taera. Kadar grows impatient with your lack of growth. I have been stern with you, I know, but you will find he is a muc
h crueler master than I if you fail now.”
“What is it he wants?” Taera asked, instantly wide awake, bristling with danger.
Roanna sighed. “He wants to tap the power inside of you. He feels that if it has not come out naturally, then he must pry it out of you.”
Taera stared at her, confused.
“I’ve convinced him to give us one last chance,” Roanna continued in a near whisper. She handed Taera two metal hoops that were linked together, about the size of manacles.
“What’s this?” Taera asked.
“It is a test. In the Old World it was the first test that young dreamwielders had to complete before continuing their training. To pass the test you must separate the rings. Metals have always been the most pliable materials to the mechanizations of dreamwielders. I’ve taught you as best I can how to go into a dream state. Imagine the rings in your mind, then imagine them separate, and make it be. You have until tomorrow morning to complete the test.”
“And if I fail?”
“Then Kadar will try his methods upon you,” Roanna replied. She stared at Taera long and hard before continuing. “He will torture you at first. Pain and fear trigger a certain response inside our bodies. In normal people this response is to fight with more fierceness or to run from danger more swiftly, but with sorcerers it sometimes awakens new powers. Kadar has many tools at his disposal. He will cut you, he will burn you, he will press your eyeballs until you think they will burst, he will bend your hands and feet in ways that will make you want to die, he will use his powers to hurt parts of your body you didn’t know existed. And if none of that works, Taera, he will bed you as many times as it takes to get you with child. Nothing changes a woman’s body more than carrying a child—not the coming of your moonblood or the waning of it when you are old. Sorceresses of old were known to gain and lose great powers when they gave birth.” Roanna’s eyes glistened with tears, but her voice remained steady. “I do no wish this fate upon you, but Kadar will stop at no ends to see your power come to fruition.”
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